Wake Up
by emerald1198
Summary: Imogen Moreno never really knew how to pray.
1. Chapter 1

**Wake Up**

The blade is reflecting dull shadows in the darkness of the hallway, and some part of him knows that he should be scared, something should be clicking inside of him. But there's nothing except for the muffled and distanced cries of Dead Hand's lead singer, the shrill voice echoing from the headphones that now dangle at his chest.

Clare's breaths are ragged beside him, her eyes shining with panic. To him, though, everything is just so surreal right now.

"Did pretty boy make time with my date?" Fitz sneers, and Clare gasps at the first sound of his voice.

"Fitz," she cautions, her shaking hand lifting forward as if reaching out for him yards away, "Don't do this." She enunciates each syllable, her voice calm and level.

"Shut up, _bitch_!" He snaps at her, taking a menacing step forward.

She flinches, stumbling back a bit.

He takes a deep breath and tries to speak. "I-I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry for everything."

But Fitz just takes another step forward, a bitter smirk pulling at his lips. "Really? No smartass comments?"

"It's over, Fitz," he breathes, "You win."

Fitz's eyes go from sick amusement to anger in an instant. "You had your chance to end this, Emo boy. Even your little girlfriend told you to stop, but now it's too late for apologies. Seems to me the only way you'll ever learn is if somebody teaches you a lesson."

_Look at what I've done to you._ For a moment, Eli hears the most angelic voice murmur into his ear, and he turns to Clare. But her lips are still paralyzed, and he realizes she hasn't spoken.

"What?" He breathes, and Fitz's eyebrows furrow, his eyes narrowing.

"Did you not just hear what I said?" Fitz hisses, and Eli's attention is suddenly on the sharp, silver bade that is now only feet away from his chest.

Eli can only let out a mangled, unintelligible stutter, and Fitz scoffs, "You're more messed up than I thought."

There's a scream, a flash of a movement, and pain. Oh, so much pain. He can feel the cold floor on his back now, can smell his own blood. His body is writhing on the ground, heaving up and down with low gasps for breath. He's not even in control.

_I'm so sorry. Look at what this has done to you._

_ What? _He screams the words, but they aren't real. There's a piercing light surrounding him, and he can't remember when exactly it came. He can't remember anything . . .

_Wake up. Please, wake up. _The voice is pleading with him, and he wants so badly to do what the angel is asking, but he has no idea how.

_Tell me what to do_, he begs, but she's gone, the light's gone, and there's nothing . . .

"Ahh!" Clare's screams are everywhere, and suddenly he's standing again. He smells the blood, and his hand shoots up to his chest where the pain was moments ago, but there's nothing there.

And that's when he realizes that Clare is the one writhing on the ground, her hands covered in blood where she clutches her side.

And the murderer is just standing there, his eyes startled, his mouth open without any words escaping. "I never – I wasn't going to – meant that to happen – I" –

And then he runs.

_Let me go. _The voice is there again. _Let Clare go._

"No! _No!"_ He screams, angry at the angel.

"It's me he wanted! It _was _me!" But no matter how much he protests, the bloody wound that he saw, _felt, _on his own skin only moments ago is now on Clare's body.

_Look at what I've done to you. I'm so sorry._

"What do you mean?" He demands through panicked tears.

_You have to let me go, Eli. You have to do it for her._

"Julia?" He gasps, and suddenly he's kneeling near the side of a dark road, weeping over a dark-haired girl with blood pouring from her chest, dismantled pieces of a bicycle scattered around her.

_You have to let me go._

And with a sharp pang, Eli realizes that the voice isn't Julia. It's Clare's.

**.**

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**.**

Imogen Moreno feels the tears in her eyes as she asks the usual question with her raspy voice. "How is he?"

The nice lady, Martha, at the front desk sighs and looks down. "He's been . . . talking again."

"About her," Imogen murmurs, and Martha says nothing, but Imogen knows.

"It's quite a shame," the woman sighs, "To lose them both."

Imogen isn't sure whether Martha means Julia and Clare . . . or Clare and Eli. Because, despite everything, Eli may as well be gone now, too.

"He relives the moment," Martha sighs, "It must be agony."

The word choice takes a stab at Imogen's heart. "What . . . What does he say?" She asks, cautiously, unsure whether she actually wants to know the answer.

"Sometimes, it's just sounds . . . but, lately, he keeps saying that _it should have been him_ . . ."

Imogen remembers the night of the dance, the night they lost Clare Edwards. And people still talk about her in school, even though it's been a year.

_She was such a bright girl, so kind and warm. She had such a promising future._

And they still talk about Eli sometimes.

_It's his fault, you know? He was the one that should have been stabbed, not Clare. _

_ You know, that wasn't even the first girlfriend he lost. I bet he killed them somehow, set it up. That's just too suspicious, isn't it?_

_ I heard he's gone mad now, absolutely crazy._

_ I heard they locked him up in some asylum somewhere._

_ I heard he's on an island that he can't get off of. Not that he'll ever be in his right mind to escape._

A tear runs down Imogen's cheek that she doesn't bother to catch. "Do you think he'll ever be okay?" She asks, "Do you think he'll ever wake up?"

Martha sighs, "Honey . . ."

Imogen just nods. Martha doesn't have to say it; she already knows. But that doesn't keep her from hoping, and, with a tear-streaked glance back at Martha, Imogen rounds a corner before kneeling down in her polka-dotted nylons and black-laced boots.

And Imogen Moreno does something she's never done in her life.

"Clare . . . I don't know if you can hear me . . . But Eli could really use your help right now."

**.**

**.**

**.**

**So, I guess you could say that Eli wakes up after this if you want. After all, Clare did answer Imogen's prayers . . .**

**I really don't know where this came from. I'm not sure I like it, but . . .**

**Reviews, please?**


	2. Chapter 2

**I wrote this story ages ago, and lately a few of you, whether it be in reviews for this story, others, or the occasional PM, have been suggesting that I write a second chapter. I'm sorry about the ending to this "one-shot" – at the time (which, for the record, was over half a year ago at, if I recall correctly, somewhere between two and three a.m. in the morning) I had somehow convinced myself that this was a satisfying ending – poetic or ironic or symbolic or _something._ But a recent reviewer guided me back to this story of so long ago and directed my attention to the atrocious ending I left the few of you reading this story with.**

** I can't believe I checked the "complete" box on this story. At any rate, I've decided to finish it off with a second chapter. No, I won't be making it into a full-out story, because, quite frankly, I have a horrible habit of not finishing things (and, yes, that applies to so much more in my life than Fanfiction stories) and a case of writer's block that always seems to creep up at the wrong times.**

Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. Without further ado, I present to you my new, improved, and hopefully more satisfying ending to this piece.

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She's a dazed mess of jumbled limbs and uneven breaths on the white-tiled floor of the hospital. Her hands are clenched together, her trembling fingers weaved through each other like she saw Clare once position them.

It was a year ago, before the murder, of course, and Imogen had been passing by a classroom in the east wing on her way to retrieve a textbook from her locker. They were all in a circle, she remembers, and it reminded her of a therapy session – each and every one patient forced to sit an equal distance apart, no back-corner seat to crouch away in. They were quiet, their heads bowed down and their hands together.

No one heard Imogen's scoff.

She wouldn't have sneered had she known that, weeks later, the curly-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting near the window would be dead. She really hopes Clare – if there even is a Clare somewhere – knows that.

She's not sure she did it right. Imogen has never understood how to pray. The media makes it seem as though you merely close your eyes and think words at a being somewhere in heaven. Like the sentences appear in your mind as if you are speaking them aloud.

But when Imogen, moments ago, collapsed against the wall and slid to the cool ground with her hands held firmly together, all that really flashed through her mind was brief, frightful glances of that night – the sirens, the swirling lights, her panicked, crying classmates. She tried to create clear thoughts.

_Clare, if you're listening . . ._

_ Eli needs your help right now . . ._

_ Don't let this happen to him . . ._

She's not sure whether she spoke the words aloud – only that, within fractions of moments, she was unable to string together concrete words anymore. The flashes were back, and she couldn't stifle them. Frightening, heart-wrenching visuals, blurry around the edges paired with a feeling so desperate. She can't label it. All she knows is that there was an ache in her chest and tears burning her eyes, and, more than anything she's ever wanted before, she longed for Eli Goldsworthy to open his emerald eyes again. And not the cloudy, glazed eyes that he looks at her with when he's seeing something else. She wanted to see him open, for the first time since the life-shattering night, eyes that are clear and new and ready to face the real world for what it is without Clare here anymore.

Eli Goldsworthy was much too bright to be lost to such a maddening fate. His soul was – is – pure and wondering and wistful. He saw the world in a way no one ever could. Imogen remembers that most about him.

She could capture moments in pictures, frozen to time. The fractions of seconds that people hold onto forever in their minds – caught by a stranger in pixels of light that recreate the memory.

But Eli, he could imagine it all in his mind, could see the world and everyone in it for, sometimes, who they were and, other times, who he wanted them to be. He could use everything that had ever touched his soul to create new pictures, new feelings, new escapes. His mind was scary, though. His thoughts, Imogen feared, would one day drag him too far away from reality.

But Eli only bordered that line until the night he lost her. Once she was gone, there wasn't much of a reason to balance himself along anymore. At least, that's what Imogen guesses was the last sensible thought to roam his mind.

She's not sure if she prayed the right way. Hopefully, if God's as good as they say he is, he'll understand what she meant.

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Martha is worried about her. Imogen thinks she has been for a long time now. Sometimes, Imogen visits the hospital once a day in a week, and, by Saturday or Sunday, the aged woman behind the desk is looking at her with sympathetic, yet strangely cautious eyes.

Imogen always ignores her. She guesses that, in the back of her mind, she's always sort of understood Martha's glances at those times – and just neglected to let that revelation soak into her conscious.

For some reason, though, today is different, and, no matter what she does, Imogen can't disregard Martha's troubled gazes burning into the side of her cheek.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The words come about so much more hostile than she intended them to, but she's too flustered and drained to make any kind of amend.

Martha is startled, and Imogen knows why; the old lady has been giving her these looks for almost a year now, but Imogen's never addressed them. Martha isn't sure how to respond. Either that, or, Imogen realizes with a sudden jolt in her stomach, she isn't sure whether Imogen wants to hear the truth.

Instead of a hesitant explanation or a moment of dragging silence, Martha, with a nonchalant countenance holding her together, merely asks, "Imogen, how old are you?"

"Nineteen," Imogen mutters, though she doesn't see what that has to do with anything.

She nods. "Are you going to school?"

Imogen shrugs, "Not yet. I don't really know what I want to do."

And the small wince in Martha's eyes is what gives it away, the relationship between Imogen's age and life and the sympathetic glances.

"I'm fine, Martha," Imogen insists, but her voice strains and breaks. And she doesn't sound confident in her words at all.

Martha frowns. The expression looks natural, fitting itself into the lines already carved on her face. But she guesses you can't smile an awful lot when you work at a place like this.

For a brief moment, Imogen wonders if someday those lines will be on her face – and then, just as quickly, banishes the thought.

"Imogen," Martha sighs, "don't let the world lose you, too."

Her stomach clenches. She tears her mind for words but can't seem to find any – just like when she was praying moments ago. Her throat is dry anyway.

Martha continues, and Imogen tries not to listen. But the words seep through her like water filling cracks in pavement. "I remember him. He used to come for therapy sessions once a month. He was bright and intelligent – such a unique human being. And then he lost that girl and" –

"Clare," Imogen hisses. The words are raspy, scraping her throat on the way up. "Her name was Clare . . . And she was wonderful."

Martha's eyes soften and glisten. "I'm sure she was," is all Martha says.

She turns away to take a call, and Imogen slouches back into the corner, her limbs flimsy and limp. She can't stop herself from inventing the next words off Martha's lips.

_I'm sure she was, but she's gone – and you can't bring her back. She wouldn't want you two to sacrifices your lives over her. _

And it's true. If, in some form, Clare still exists, she surely doesn't want Eli to grow old in this prison, to have his creativity slowly sucked away by the white walls on all sides of him.

But that's the thing about people you love. They see you better than anyone, yet the one thing they'll never understand is how truly impossible it is to drag on through life without them. They want you to live on and thrive when they're gone, but they never tell you how.

No one ever tells you how to do that. Most people, if not all – Imogen's quite certain – never learn how to do that. They just learn how to pretend. There are a whole lot of people on the earth who are dead inside, Imogen thinks.

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He hears her voice. It's unmistakable; it will be that way for eternity. Even as he stares at the bleeding girl sprawled over the gurney, clutches at her pale hand, watches the once radiant cerulean shade of her eyes dull to a stormy sky as her blinking slows – he hears her voice.

Soft and clear. As if she is still giving him advice on a writing piece. As if she is still singing along to those dreadfully slow acoustic, boy-band songs on Morty's radio. As if she is still curled up beside him, whispering she loves him into his ear.

This isn't real, Eli, she says, It's time that you let me go. She's waiting for you to wake up.

And the words swell into hopeful clouds in his heart. He's dreaming horrible dreams. In minutes, he will wake up in his own room, sweating and crying – and, perhaps, Clare will be there with him, molded to his side, her arm tossed over his chest. And she'll whisper soothing words to him and comb his hair back behind his ear. She'll kiss him until he forgets all about this agonizing delirium.

With a strange jolt through his body and white, blinding light streaming through the world, he gasps awake, coughing and sputtering and screaming. He thrashes under white covers and breathes quick but heavy.

She's not there, though. He's locked into a small, white room, and there's a dark-haired, slender girl in the corner crying silently. It's Imogen. She's a bit taller, and her hair is straight rather than pulled back into a braid. Her glasses have disappeared, revealing dark bags hanging under her eyes.

But she's still Imogen Moreno, his theater partner and good friend – and he's just happy to see someone that isn't lit dark with the terrifying dream world.

"Imogen," he croaks. His voice is cracked and dry as if he hasn't spoken in ages.

Tears run down her face, and she begins to sob now. "Yes, yes," she gasps between uneven breaths, "It's me."

"Where's Clare?" He whispers, untrusting of his voice.

Imogen's happy tears falter. Her lips quiver for a moment before letting out an unsteady breath. "Eli . . ." she murmurs and then snivels.

His blood runs cold. Ice is flowing through his veins.

No . . .

"It was real." It was supposed to be a question, but the words string together as a statement. His eyes are closed tight; he doesn't want to see Imogen's expression. But the dragging moment of silence that follows the words are enough confirmation.

"Only the first time," Imogen breaths.

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Life goes on for them both.

At first, it is a painful, seemingly meaningless existence for Eli. Imogen tries to be patient, but, with three college classes a day and a part-time job, she is lucky if he is not huddled in a corner shaking by the time she arrives home to the small apartment they share.

The hospital, which he still must visit frequently, is far away from his parents' home in Toronto, and, besides, the only one he can talk to is Imogen.

They don't share a bed or even a bedroom, excepting the occasional nights when Eli wakes in a pool of salty sweat and tears, thrashing and crying, and Imogen wraps her arms around him, just standing, sitting – lying – there with him until his sobs turn to coughs and his tear ducts run dry.

It isn't all bad, though. Not even those first couple months are all bad. Sometimes, when neither is in the mood to think, they talk about easy subjects like Imogen's strange Humanities professor, with a scruffy mustache, who spits when he talks. One day, Imogen even comes home to find Eli crouched behind the door with a can of whipped cream clutched in his hand. They laugh and spray each other with the dessert, along with eating an awful lot of it. And they fall asleep smiling that night.

The evening, years later, when Eli kisses Imogen is slow and hazardous. But Eli knows he's ready, and, after awhile, Imogen believes him. He does love her.

They talk about Clare sometimes – never for too long, though. Eli is an atheist, and Imogen is an agnostic. And they just live life, unsure of what happens in the end.

But, when Eli is out of the apartment, Imogen still prays. And she doesn't worry that she's doing it wrong anymore.

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Hopefully, that is a more satisfying ending. This is complete.

A review would be great.


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